


Through the Vapors

by till-hammer (itsahardyparty)



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Alcohol, Drowning, I hope you like lakes and being sad, M/M, Water, hhhhh, its kinda sad ngl, water is kind of a central theme here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-07-19 21:36:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19980880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsahardyparty/pseuds/till-hammer
Summary: Paul has a crush on one of the local countryside boys, but he's very withdrawn. Is he simply shy, or is there something to be concerned about?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Fried Eggs and Honey](https://archiveofourown.org/works/121925) by [autiotalo (orphan_account)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/autiotalo). 



Flake could be such a drag sometimes. He didn't seem to understand that they were _rockstars_ now. Feeling B was becoming reasonably popular, and what girl didn't love a musician? If Flake could manage to actually relax at a party for once, he would see that getting girls--or boys--was much easier than he thought. Paul dragged him to these after-parties in the futile hope that eventually Flake would enjoy one of them, but that hadn't seemed to come to fruition yet. Although, he had yet to put his foot down, and always allowed Paul to wheedle him into coming, so maybe there was still hope for him. 

Now, both Paul and Flake were city boys, but sometimes the country wasn't terrible. As long as one stayed on the paved roads, off the farmland to avoid ticks, and out of direct sunlight for too long so that Flake didn't get sunburnt, they were golden. The silence could be unsettling, and the darkness stifling, but in a house party, with flashing lights and thumping music, it was hard to notice.

"Come on, have another one!" Paul shouts over the music, shoving another jello shot at Flake. "You have to loosen up!"

Flake accepts the shot and wrinkles his nose in disgust. The bass was making his ribcage _vibrate._ "When can we _leave_? It's almost two, I want to go to bed." 

Paul groans playfully and rolls his eyes. "You are no _fun!"_

"You knew that before we came here!"

Paul grins as a girl wraps her arms around him drunkenly, hands her his drink, and passes her to Flake. "He'll take good care of you."

Flake hisses at him, eyes widening in panic as the girl starts to lead him toward her group of friends. He would probably be pissed off for a little while, but eventually he'd thank Paul. The best way to overcome his fear of women would probably be exposure therapy. 

Paul makes his way into the kitchen, occasionally swaying unsteadily and giggling as people compliment his guitar playing on the way. He takes a shot that somebody hands him, throws it back, and hands the glass to the first person he sees. He never understood why Flake hated parties so much. They were fun. Lots of people were interested in them after they performed, and he got to drink and dance as much as he wanted without a care in the world. Maybe that was Flake's problem, then. Maybe he had too many cares.

Out of sight, and out of mind, Flake slips quickly from Paul's thoughts with the ever-optimistic confidence that he would be having fun with that girl. Paul busies himself instead in the kitchen, where he surrounds himself with locals who are curious about Berlin. 

"There isn't so much empty space," he explains, grinning at the drunkenly mystified expressions around him. "Or so much _grass._ All the buildings are very close together."

"I would love to visit Berlin," one of the girls across from Paul sighs. "It is so quiet here."

Paul nods sagely. "Coming to the country is always a bit of culture shock for us. We like these parties, because they keep us stimulated."

"Sometimes it can be very strange out here, in these little villages," the girl whispers loudly, leaning in to share with Paul the apparent secret. "You know, all the families know each other."

"Ana, not this again," one of the boys groans. "Don't listen to her, she is so superstitious--"

Paul cocks his head. "Of course. What is strange about that? Aside from having no privacy--"

"That's just it." Her eyes widen earnestly, and her friends begin to roll their eyes, though in her passion she doesn't seem to notice. "Everyone knows everything. So, when something bad happens--"

"Ana, please, not this again!"

The locals seem more than a little put off, but Paul is intrigued by this sudden drama, and a grin begins at the corner of his mouth. "No, it's alright. Go on, I want to hear it."

"The lake is haunted!" Ana announces proudly, and her friends toss their heads back, letting out defeated groans. "And I can take you there."

Paul cocks his head. Admittedly, that was slightly anticlimactic. He'd sort of been hoping for a murder mystery. He was beginning to understand her friends' exasperation, too--she was beginning to come off as less intriguing and more insane. 

"See?"

Ana frowns at all of them, then leans in to Paul again, green eyes desperately, earnestly wide. "I'm serious. I've felt things there before--and hardly anybody ever goes near it, too, because they agree--"

"Because you keep telling everyone it's haunted," one of the least amused girls cuts in. "Honestly, Ana, cut it out--"

"But it _is_ haunted--"

"Ladies!" Paul cuts in, grinning again and tapping his fingers good-naturedly on the counter. "That's alright. I am a neutral party. I can be the judge of whether the lake is truly haunted."

Ana grins victoriously. "So you will let us take you to the lake?"

Paul grins, taking another shot and nodding enthusiastically. "Of course. It's beginning to get warm in here anyway. I could do with a walk."

Ana, and the other girl, Julia, lead Paul out of the little house that was the party site and down the winding dirt road toward the street. In the absence of sensory stimulants, the area was so empty, and eerily still. Some people found places like this calming, or so Paul had heard, but he had personally never had a preference for silence. The sky is so much clearer here than in Berlin, and if he looked up, he could see a sky filled to the brim with stars. The breeze, slight though it was, rustled the long grass around them and the leaves in the trees overhead, giving it the illusion of having sentience. The blades of grass reached toward them, and toward the horizon like fine, green fingers, and the leaves in the trees rustled and chattered, excited to meet them. The countryside was lively in a very different way than the city was. It was subtle, charming, and slightly unsettling.

"Are you sure this whole place isn't haunted? The trees are speaking with me," he jokes, raising his eyebrows when Julia shoots him a look.

"This is just what it's like out here," Ana murmurs. "You should try not to be so jumpy."

That's easy for her to say, Paul thought, trudging along dutifully behind the two girls. 

After a little while longer on the dirt path, the two of them diverge, and begin to take Paul through the grass, through an even more deserted-looking meadow. There don't seem to be any houses for miles--how can these people live this way?

"Are we almost there?" he ventures, squinting at his watch--it was past three. How long had they been walking?

"Almost," Ana assures him. It's incredibly dark, so he can hardly see anything, but Paul is losing faith that this lake exists at all--in fact, he's beginning to think this whole thing is just a very elaborate prank. 

The meadow begins to slope easily, drawing the three of them downward toward lower ground. The wind in the shallow little valley picks up a little, rustling through Paul's choppy blonde hair. There aren't any trees anymore, or at least not as many--they're still there, in the distance, but they seem to have come upon a clearing. The wind licks the back of Paul's neck again, and he shivers. The light had been blotted out by the inky blue-black sky, and apparently, the warmth had as well. 

Paul fails to notice the fog in the darkness until it's already enveloped them, and nearly stops in his tracks. 

"We're very close now," Julia calls distantly, and he hurries to catch up to her. "We're near the water, the air is cold..." She waves a hand. "See for yourself."

Strictly speaking, seeing anything at that exact moment was a challenge. But, ever the cavalier, Paul bravely ventures forward, running his fingers along the lakeside reeds and beginning to march along the perimeter.

"It doesn't seem haunted, does it?" Julia raises her eyebrows. 

"...not strictly, no," Paul answers carefully. "But I suppose there's still time for the ghosts to come and say hello."

"That means I'm right!" Julia announces, turning on her heel and starting back up the hill.

"Julia!" Ana calls. "Where are you going?"

"Back to the house."

"Wait!" She starts to run after her, then turns back to Paul. "I'll be back. But you should stay here. It really does grow on you."

"Uh, no, actually I'm--"

"Julia, wait!" Ana darts off after her friend, leaving Paul utterly and helplessly stranded at the side of a fogged-over, possibly-haunted lake. 

Fucking wonderful.

Paul shakes his head and continues around the edge, keeping his right arm extended so he could touch the surrounding reeds gently. This was the universe's payback for all of his complaining about the silence. Now he had no choice but to make friends with the lakeside plants, and whatever other alien creature could be living in the water. That was another thing about nature that Paul wasn't especially fond of--wind by itself was all right, but wind on otherwise silent water made it seem unsettlingly alive, as if it had a mind of its own. Somewhat disturbing, but hardly a haunt.

It was easy enough to adjust to, though, and Paul allowed his imagination to take him to a version of this tiny village's lake where the Loch Ness Monster lived, or one where it was crawling with beautiful mermaids, or one where he could stick his head underwater and the fish would speak to him. This seemed like the perfect place to experience such magical things--you would never find a unicorn in a Berliner's apartment complex, after all. But really, it's all fanciful daydreams to cut through the boredom of waiting, and making a very dull landmark considerably more interesting. There was not a talking fish to be found. Not even _one_ beautiful merperson.

Paul hums lightly to cut through the stillness that had taken over again in the midst of his imagination wandering, swinging his free arm gently. Flake was probably having a much better time than him now. How ironic. 

"If anybody can hear me," Paul bellows into the sky, throwing his head back and grinning again. "This village and this lake are _shit!"_

"They aren't so bad."

The voice that answers is quiet, but Paul still screams in surprise, staggering backward and falling into the thick grass. "Fuck--"

He sits up and blinks--a young man around his age is sitting in the reeds at the edge of the lake, large eyes fixed on him curiously. It's difficult to see him through the darkness and the fog, but he can tell that he's being watched.

Paul clears his throat quietly, now a little embarrassed. "Uh...I'm sorry."

"That's all right." 

Paul slowly, cautiously, rises to his feet, edging a little closer. "How long have you been there?"

"Oh, a while." His lips twitch. "My name is Till."

Alright, so the natives were a little weird. Noted. Paul nods, pushes a hand through his hair, and holds his hand out for Till to shake. "Paul." 

Till just looks at his hand mildly and makes no move to take it. "You aren't from here."

"Uh...no, I'm not." In spite of himself, Paul inches closer. Perhaps a more reasonable person would have been creeped out, but there was something about Till that was very disarming. "I am from Berlin."

"Those girls were showing you the lake?"

"Yeah." Paul nods. "They said it's haunted." He cocks his head, grinning. "It's three o'clock and you're sitting here. Are you having a seance?"

Till smiles a little. "No. I like the lake. It's calming. But many people do believe it is haunted."

"Can you confirm?"

He shrugs one large shoulder indifferently. "Would you like to sit?"

Paul wrinkles his nose. "Is the ground wet?"

"No."

Unable to decide why he was humoring a man he'd just met, he pushes the reeds apart and hunkers down beside Till. With the moonlight reflecting off the lake, he was easier to see now: he was a large, muscular bear of a man with a drawn, sad face, and large, blue, downturned eyes, one of which was nearly hidden behind a thick fringe of dark hair. He was barefoot, the legs of his pants rolled up just below the knees so he could dip his feet in the water. For the broadness of all Till's features, he had surprisingly delicate lips, which Paul notices only when his tongue pokes out to wet them. 

Paul catches himself staring, and manages to tear his eyes away in favor of looking out on the water. "Do you come here very often?"

Till nods, eyes glimmering with the moonbeams bouncing off the lake's ripples. "All the time."

"This is your happy place, then."

Till chuckles, but it comes out almost harsh, as if he were scoffing. "Yes, you could say that."

"I don't like the countryside too much," Paul hums. "But this is all right."

"You're quite blunt."

Paul shrugs, grinning again, and this time Till takes notice of the way the corners of his eyes crinkle up. "Better than lying."

"That's true." Till glances over at Paul again. "How long are you visiting?"

He shrugs one shoulder. "I'm traveling with my band, and we have another show or two here. A few days? Aljoscha probably knows."

Rather than asking who Aljoscha is, Till nods, reclining back a little. "Maybe the countryside will grow on you."

"Yeah, maybe." Paul inches closer to Till, studying him closely, and raises his eyebrows in surprise when Till looks down. "Do you think you'd come to our next show?"

"Oh, I don't know." He looks back toward the water again. "I don't like crowds so much."

"Well, think about it. We're pretty good." He grins, peering over at Till. "And I'd like to see you there."

Till raises his eyebrows, unable to hide his surprise. _"Me?"_

"Why not? You seem cool." And attractive. "A little quiet, though." A mischievous grin spreads across Paul's face. "Perhaps we could get to know one another better."

" _Paul!"_

Paul's head snaps up, and he turns toward the sound--Ana had finally come back to fetch him, and was standing atop the hill. "I'm coming!" He turns back to Till, eyes wide. "If I come back here tomorrow, will you be here? You said you come here a lot--"

"Paul, come on!"

Till blinks. "You want to come back to the lake?"

Paul cocks his head, grinning as he climbs to his feet. "Yeah. I want to see you again. I think we could have a lot to talk about."

Till stares at him a moment longer, then nods. "Yes, I'll be here."

"Excellent!" A huge, warm grin bursts across Paul's face like a sun flare, and Till smiles too, momentarily too consumed with happiness to be embarrassed. Paul waves at Till as he wades through the reeds, before jogging back up the hill to Ana. 

She wrinkles her nose. "Were you sitting in the lake?"

"No, don't be silly. The water was just...very beautiful." He nods, grin never once faltering. "In fact, tomorrow, I think I'll see how it looks in daylight."


	2. Chapter 2

"--so, explain this to me again, please."

Paul narrows his eyes across the kitchen table at Flake. "What's there to explain?"

"Are you going _out_ with him? Is this a date?"

"No, we're going to sit by the lake."

Flake stares incredulously at him, pausing the meticulous peeling of his orange. "The lake."

"Yes."

"And what, exactly, do you know about him?"

Paul pauses, now beginning to feel somewhat embarrassed. "His name is Till. And he likes the lake."

"You're either dating a serial killer, or the swamp thing, and I think this is a terrible idea."

"You think everything is a terrible idea, all the time, because you suck." Paul's lips twitch with the beginnings of a smile, and so do Flake's. He stands up and tosses his bag over his shoulder, finishing the rest of his coffee and setting the mug down on the kitchen table triumphantly. "I'll be back."

"Don't die. I don't want to audition another guitarist."

That makes Paul giggle, and he nods. "I'll do my very best. See you later."

The walk out to the lake seems much shorter in the light of day. All the rustling trees and windswept grass also seem to greet him warmly, punctuated by birdsongs and the occasional whistle of the wind when it curves perfectly in the hollow of the valley. In fact, there's even a bit of a spring in his step, and he finds himself enjoying the countryside for the first time in his life. It seemed so ridiculous that anybody could think the lake haunted when it was light out. With the chill in the air, and the fog, it seemed far more feasible a possibility. 

Once he arrives, Paul sees that the water is still slightly obscured by the tall reeds surrounding it, but the fine yellow sunlight causes the dark water to glitter and shine happily. "Till?" he calls, starting down the hill. "You here?"

There is a moment's pause, and then a hand slowly rises from behind the brush.

"Ah!" Paul breaks out into a smile and hurries down, pulling his bag off on the way. Like an overexcited child, he slides into the reeds and nearly falls down beside Till, cocking his head when he sees that he's in the same position as he was last night.

"What is the matter?" Till murmurs, concern widening his already-large eyes, and in his sobriety, Paul is surprised at how soft-spoken Till is. 

"Oh...no, I just...did you...have you been here this entire time?" He glances down at Till's still-rolled pants and still-soaking feet. "You aren't cold?"

"Do not worry. I slept." He cocks his head, relieved when Paul relaxes. "I wasn't sure you would come back."

Paul cocks his head right back. "Why not? I keep promises, even if I'm drunk when I make them."

"I just don't see why you would want to." Till shrugs, averting his eyes shyly. "City boys don't like lakes."

"Well, maybe I'm different." Paul leans in, grins when Till actually _blushes_ , and opens his bag. "I brought food."

Till looks back at Paul, evidently surprised, and Paul can't help but smile. "Food?"

"Yes, I have brought a picnic. Well, some pastries and a few apples and some smoked sausage."

Till's lips twitch. "Thank you. I will have some in a little bit."

Paul pulls a cheese pastry out of his bag, unwraps the wax paper, and takes a large bite. "Suit yourself, I suppose. So...what is so special about this lake? I've been thinking very hard about this."

"Well, I used to be a swimmer," Till murmurs. "So the water feels like another home to me."

"A swimmer!" Paul exclaims, straightening up and looking Till over with a dumbstruck expression. "But you're so _big--"_ He frowns, shaking his head when Till looks down. "No, not like that! It isn't a bad thing. You look so strong. I thought you must be...I don't know. A weightlifter?" He cringes a little, suddenly acutely aware of his own rambling. "I just...you must be very strong. That's all."

Till peeks up at him from behind his fringe, and it is when Paul notices that he is looking _down_ at Till that he had been hunched over. Paul frowns deeply and leans in, trying to see him through his hair, and almost giggles when Till shrinks away. "You don't have to be shy. Why don't you tell me about swimming? That's very cool."

Till shakes his head modestly. "It isn't that cool. I never really liked it."

"No? Why not?" Paul cocks his head to the side, frowning again. 

"I like to swim. But being a _swimmer_...there is a lot of pressure on you to do well."

He nods slowly, sitting back in the grass. "Is that why you stopped?"

"No. I had an injury. My father was unhappy, but...it was a blessing in disguise."

Paul nods again, rolling over the new information in his mind. "You must be much happier now."

Till nods, more at the lake than at Paul. "It is complicated. But in a way I am, yes."

He cocks his head at the oddly cryptic answer, then smiles again. "Have you thought about whether you would come to our show? It's tonight, and it isn't far from here. You could get in for free, and I would even bring you backstage."

Till winces a little. "I do not do very well in crowds--"

"Well, that's why I would bring you backstage. You could watch from the side, where there wouldn't be any people."

Till just stares at him, a little guilty. "I have to work tonight."

Paul frowns deeply, unable to hide his disappointment. "...oh. Okay."

"I would love to, though--maybe some other time?"

"There isn't another time. We have one more show here, and then we leave. Wait!" Paul snaps up, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. "The concert is at night. You have to work at night?"

Till shrinks away, averting his eyes completely this time. 

Paul shakes his head and stuffs everything back in his bag, shooting to his feet. "Whatever. I should go rehearse anyway. Have fun in your stupid lake."

"Paul, wait--"

* * *

Flake shakes his head, glancing up at Paul as he tunes his guitar. "I'm sorry the swamp boy was trying to give you the slip."

Paul shakes his head. "No you aren't. You thought he was a serial killer."

Flake straightens up indignantly. "Yes, but I still want you to be happy. Maybe he was a serial killer who would have treated you right."

"It doesn't matter. This entire village is weird. I can't wait until we get back to civilization."

The concert goes well, Aljoscha is pleased, and for once, the tables turn, and Flake has to drag _Paul_ to the after-party. The ever-happy ray of sunshine was, perhaps, for the only time since Flake had known him, not in the mood to have fun. 

"Come on, it couldn't hurt."

"I want to go to bed, Flake."

"But what about those girls?"

"They're the ones who took me to him in the first place."

"...well, don't you want to get drunk and forget about him?"

Paul peers up at him, grinning a little. "...I could stand to get drunk."

"Alright then. Come on." And for the first time in his life, Flake grabs Paul's hand and marches him right into a flashing, thumping house party. He pushes the two of them through the crowd, pulling Paul right up to the liquor table. "Let's do a shot."

Paul stares at him. " _You_ want to do shots?"

"Yes. I don't like when you're like this, and I want you to loosen up."

Three shots later and Flake is swaying, and has also impressively managed to hunt down almost all the girls and boys Paul had been chatting with the other night. Two more and he's leaning forward with his elbows on the counter, loudly recounting Paul's sad story. 

"Flake, be quiet," Paul groans. He was such an unruly drunk.

"Who was the bastard, anyway?"

One of the boys nods. "It's a small town. We probably know him."

"His name is _Todd!"_ Flake announces confidently, and Paul rolls his eyes. 

"No, his name is _Till_."

All of them glance at one another slowly, and Paul frowns. "What? What's the matter?"

"His...name is _Till?"_ Uwe repeats. "Till _what?"_

"Till doesn't seem like it would be a popular name."

"It...isn't."

"Well, what does he look like?" Julia asks. 

"You know, he's big, dark hair, blue or green eyes...kind of quiet...he used to be a swimmer, actually."

Flake frowns at the resulting silence, looking around the table. "What? Does he have a bad reputation or something--"

Ana lets out a quiet sob, pushing herself up from the table and tossing her drink in Paul's face. "I don't know who you think you are, that--that you think you can mock us, just because we come from a little village and not from _Berlin_ \--"

Paul stands up and smacks his hands on the table, pulling up the collar of his shirt so he can mop the liquor off his face. "What are you _talking about?!"_

Julia stands up and wraps her arms around a still-crying Ana, rubbing her back softly. "Just get out. What a horrible joke to play on her. There is something seriously wrong with you."

Just as Paul opens his mouth to argue with the two of them, Flake grabs him by the back of his shirt and begins to drag him out of the house. He pushes his way right back through the packed house, pulling Paul behind him quickly, before the two of them finally burst through the front door and into the cool night air.

"What the hell was that about?" Paul sputters. "What was that? She _cried_ \--"

"Maybe she used to date him?" Flake offers helpfully. "That would be cause for upset, I suppose--"

"But--what was she saying about mocking them because they're from a small town? What could that mean?"

"Hmmm." Flake muses for a second, rubbing his chin. "Maybe they hate gay people."

"That doesn't seem like the reason either. All I know is, we have to find out more about this guy. There's something very weird about him."

Flake cocks his head. "Maybe the library?"

"It's past midnight, it can't be open."

Flake pauses, glancing rather regretfully back toward the house party. "We...may be forced to ask a local."

"After _that?_ Are you crazy?"

"Well, not _her_ , obviously! Somebody else, though...maybe a more...neutral party?"

"Alright. Alright. We'll...find somebody in the morning. Let's just go back to the inn." Paul scrubs a hand through his hair, releasing a breath. "I guess I dodged a bullet after all."

The next morning finds Flake and Paul at the inn's kitchen table again, awkwardly sitting across from each other and eating their _Müsli_ in silence.

"I suppose we should get going soon," says Flake, who was genuinely beginning to fear that this Till person was a serial killer.

"I guess we should," replies Paul, who was only certain that Till had been involved, somehow, some way, in something egregiously horrible. 

Shuffling slowly and uncomfortably into town, the two of them finally make their way into the square, and Paul finally, begrudgingly approaches a man reading a book on a bench. 

"Uh...pardon me." He braces himself to be hit over the head with the man's book. "We aren't from around here, and...do you know of a man named Till? Dark hair, very muscular, a swimmer--I'm so sorry if this is a strange question, but he seems to be a sore topic, and we are so _confused_ \--"

The man blinks stoically at Paul and Flake, then slowly licks his thumb, folds down the corner of the page he was on, and gently sets the book down on the bench beside him. "What are your names, boys?"

"Uh...I'm Paul. And this is Christian. We are in a band together."

"And where, aside from "not here", are you from?"

"...Berlin, sir."

He nods, shakily in his old age, and stands slowly, crooking a gnarled finger at them. "I am going to assume that you boys are coming from a good place. Genuine, innocent curiosity. Yes?"

Both of them nod obediently, beginning to follow him as he leans on his cane and hobbles in the opposite direction. 

"Come with me. I will...show you something."

Flake glances at Paul and shakes his head. "This is another bad idea," he hisses, grabbing his sleeve. "We should get out of here!"

"No!" Paul hisses back, pulling himself free. "He knows who Till is. And I want to find out. And if you don't, then I'll go myself!"

Flake throws his head back and groans. "Oh, fine. Let's go, follow the haunted old man to our doom--"

"Shut up! Come on." Paul grabs Flake's skinny wrist and pulls him along behind the old man, creeping along beside him once they catch up. "Where are we going?"

"To my home. I have...saved something. A newspaper."

Paul moans quietly and rolls his eyes up to the sky. Flake was right. He _must be_ a serial killer. There's no other explanation. 

The old man leads the two of them to his cottage, where he stops at the door to draw a large key out of his pocket, and painstakingly lift it to the lock. The tumblers roll and click in the ancient door, before the man finally pulls it open. The front room smells like moth balls, wood polish, and dust, and everything inside it appears to be at least fifty years old. The man's cane drags against the carpeting as he hobbles over to his bookshelf. In the air, he traces the coordinates with his fingers: amidst the dusty books and other preserved, scattered papers, on the third shelf, left side, was a newspaper from four years ago. 

"Here you go." He blows the dust off it, and Flake coughs, handing it to Paul with a trembling hand. It was probably nerve damage, but in Paul's overactive imagination, it was fear. "The fourth page."

Paul takes the crisp, yellowed pages and slowly opens them to the fourth page, glancing up was Flake peers over his shoulder. 

He swallows harshly, throat suddenly very dry. "I, uh...I don't understand."

"That is why we do not discuss Till Lindemann."

Paul licks his lips, stomach wound unsettlingly tight, and clenches the newspaper in his fists anxiously. He reads the article again and again, but each time changes nothing: there is ice water in his veins and numbness in his fingers. 

"That...can't be the same person," Flake breathes, knowing very well that it was. The picture was exactly what Paul had described. But none of this made any sense. 

It was so much worse than either of them had dared to imagine. 

Paul swallows dryly again, folding the newspaper up. "I, uh...I need to go. I will be right back though, alright? I will bring the newspaper back. Thank you. I'm sorry, I just have to go--"

Flake's eyes widen. "Paul, _wait_ \--"

"Stay here, or meet me back at the inn, I don't care, I just--I have to _go!"_

Paul rolls up the paper and clenches it tightly in his fist, bolts out the door, and leaves Flake and the old man to stare after him, dumbstruck and utterly shaken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry 'bout the cliffhanger. Couldn't resist. :)


	3. Chapter 3

Paul flies through the town and out into the woods, legs carrying him feverishly, as quickly as they could go. He hoped that Till was still there. Now that he had actual information about him, his mind was awash with more questions than ever. He ducks around trees and jumps over patches of bramble and brush that he'd been able to avoid easily when speed was not an issue, lifting a hand to shield his eyes from the early morning sunlight. It was pretty out here. No wonder Till liked it so much.

He trips over a raised tree root in a moment of absentmindedness, grunting as his momentum flings him to the ground. Paul was at the edge of the forest now, and he could see where the meadow began to slope toward the lake. He was almost there. He just hoped that Till would be there too. 

Paul pulls himself back up and resumes his sprinting, pulling back a little so he doesn't tumble headfirst down the hill, and skids to a halt when he reaches the lake. He falls into a jog, running part of the way around the perimeter, then slows to a stop when he sees the familiar place where the reeds part. 

"Till?" he murmurs, approaching him cautiously. He's staring fixedly out at the water, but turns around suddenly when he hears Paul.

"...you came back," he breathes, smiling a little. The grin drops quickly when Paul doesn't return it. In fact, he looks...disturbed. "Is everything alright?"

"Uh...no, actually, everything is not alright." Paul lifts a hand to push it through his hair, barely noticing that he's shaking. "Uh...I have to talk to you."

"You do?" Till's eyes fall on the newspaper in Paul's hand. "What is that?"

Paul swallows the growing lump in his throat, tears pricking his eyes. "It's a newspaper. From a long time ago."

Till frowns deeply and slides over a little, beckoning for Paul to come closer. "Come, sit. Tell me what's wrong."

Paul, legs trembling weakly, slowly approaches him and parts the reeds, taking his usual spot to Till's right. "You..."

"What is it?" he murmurs, eyes widened with concern. "You can tell me."

Paul swallows again, stares out at the lake, and unrolls the newspaper slowly, opening it to the page that the old man had shown him and Flake. "You're dead."

He refuses to look at Till, instead staring blankly at the printed words that he could no longer bear to read. "And...this lake, is...where you died, and..." He draws a deep breath that trembles in his throat. "And I can talk to you for some reason, which...is either a very committed practical joke, or it's _crazy_ \--" He cuts himself off with a sharp breath.

Paul winces at Till's resulting silence, afraid that this action, speaking about the reality of what had happened to him, was enough to send his spirit into the ether. 

But eventually, he does look back at Till, and recoils when he does. Suddenly, he was soaked to the bone, water dripping off his hair and clothes. His lips were blue from what could only be oxygen deprivation, the blood vessels in his face and neck purple and visible under the skin. When he turns back toward Paul, his sunken eyes are wide with pleading horror, dark circles surrounding them. He draws in a breath, or struggles to, and it rattles in his chest like a death knell. "It hurts," is all he manages to rasp, before hunching over and succumbing to a fit of harsh, wet coughing. He scratches at his chest and throat, desperate for air, then grips his stomach, doubles over, and vomits up a mouthful of water that doesn't splash. 

"It's okay--it's okay!" Paul rushes to reassure him, reaching out for Till in his panic, either to hold him, or comfort him, or save him from the hell he was experiencing, but it was like sticking his arm through a cold mist. No matter how he reached, he couldn't make any contact.

Till doesn't seem to notice the disturbance. Once he recovers, he only stares hatefully out at the glinting water, before coughing again into his elbow. 

Paul shakes his head, shutting his eyes. He wanted so badly for this to be a joke. "Till, I'm so sorry."

"I just...don't see...how it could happen," he whispers, pausing every so often to wheeze with what seemed to be extraordinary effort. "I can swim."

Paul frowns, knitting his eyebrows in confusion and looking down at the paper again. "What?"

"I don't...see how a...swimmer drowns." The water bubbles up in Till's throat again when he breathes out, and he hunches over suddenly so that he can cough up more of it, this time hacking violently until his eyes water and his throat is raw.

Paul stares at him incredulously until his coughing fit finishes. "Till? Do you...remember what happened to you?"

Till lifts his head heavily, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. He turns to Paul with wide, watery eyes, like those of a petrified child, and slowly shakes his head. "I got hurt swimming, I think."

"...yes," Paul answers carefully. "Do you...remember what else happened?"

Slowly, he shakes his head, haunted eyes blank. "No."

Paul clears his throat and lifts the paper a little, staring up at Till with concern that leaves deep lines in his face. How did one even deliver news like this? "Uh...you were drowned." _Murder_ seemed like such a harsh word, even if it was technically correct. Those eyes. How did you tell _those eyes_ they'd been murdered?

Till straightens up a little, slowly combing his dripping hair out of his eyes. "I was?"

"Mhm." He pretends to peer down at the paper again, although at this point, he could probably recite the article word for word. "Uh...was...Werner Lindemann...your father?"

Till stares at him blankly for a moment. "Yes. Why?"

Paul sighs and slowly holds the newspaper out to him. It reads:

**LOCAL ATHLETE DROWNED**

**Till Lindemann, an 18-year-old student and athlete from Wendisch-Rambow, was drowned in a lake not far from his home. Lindemann had been a favorite for the 1980 Olympics in Moscow to compete for the DDR, but suffered a torn abdominal wall shortly before. He returned home shortly after being injured to stay with his family, where Lindemann's father, popular children's author Werner Lindemann, reportedly drowned him in a lake near their property. It is thought that Lindemann had been unable to fight him off due to his injury. Werner Lindemann was found dead in his home several hours later. His death has been ruled a suicide.**

Till stares blankly at the paper for a few moments, coughs quietly, then looks up at Paul. "...my father...killed himself?"

Paul stares at him, dumbstruck. "He also killed _you_ , Till. And I think that's worse, personally!" He pauses for a beat. "He isn't here too, is he?"

Till shakes his head. "No."

The bastard was probably already in hell. 

Blinking slowly, Till lifts his face toward the sky and looks up toward the shimmering sun. He draws a deep, trembling breath, and this time it seems easier. "I think I am...starting to remember."

Paul is silent for a long time, before he moves closer to Till. "Do you ever...leave the lake?"

Till shakes his head. "I can't." He leans back on the palms of his hands, drawing his knees up until his feet are almost completely out of the water, but stops suddenly when the water is only touching the bottoms of his feet. He pulls harder, then leans back on his elbows to gain more leverage, but nothing changes. "I don't know why."

Frowning, Paul cocks his head to the side. "Well...do you ever swim anymore?"

He shakes his head again, wrapping his arms around his knees and resting his chin on them. "The water frightens me."

"I understand," Paul murmurs, even though he obviously didn't, and couldn't possibly. He felt so guilty for shouting at Till yesterday for not attending the show. But how would he have known that his soul would be physically tethered to the location of his murder?

After another long, but not necessarily uncomfortable pause, Paul turns toward Till again. "Do you...get bored out here?"

Till shrugs one shoulder after a beat. "...no," he answers slowly. It was difficult to describe how he felt. This was simply the plane of existence Till inhabited now, somewhere that flirted between being fully living and fully dead. And he did only that: exist. He had no strong feelings about it either way. 

"But," he adds, "I do like it better when you are here with me."

Paul frowns, guilt roiling in his stomach so suddenly that it makes him nauseous. 

"I have been here for four years," he continues quietly. "I speak to people when they come. You are the only one who has ever heard me."

Paul stares at him for a moment. In _four years,_ this was the only contact he'd had with another person. Paul was the only person who could even _communicate_ with him, and he'd spent half his time in this stupid little village being angry about something that didn't even matter in the end. 

"It...must be lonely. Out here, by yourself."

Till cocks his head. "A little bit. But it's alright. I've been out here for a long time. So I'm used to it." There is another, longer period of silence, and this time, it is uncomfortable. "...you have to leave soon."

Tears spring to Paul's eyes, and he doesn't know why, but he hates himself for it. "I don't want to," he assures Till quickly, who frowns when he sees that Paul is upset. "I want to stay here longer, I want to stay with _you_ \--"

He reaches out for Till again, and nearly sobs when his hand passes through the brawny shoulder again. This must have been what torture felt like. All he wanted in the entire world was to give Till a hug. And he can't. Because Till is dead _._

Till frowns deeply and scoots closer to Paul, gently placing a hand on the back of his neck and stroking his thumb over the soft skin. It doesn't feel quite like human contact, but it feels like something. And that's enough. "Please don't be sad," he whispers. "You have only known me for two days, remember?"

"Yeah, but..." Paul sniffles and rubs his eyes roughly, trying to get rid of the tears. "There...there isn't any chance you can come and haunt my suitcase, right? If I dropped it in the lake, maybe I could take you with me--"

"I don't think it works that way," Till murmurs softly.

"Why _not?"_ Paul demands, tearfully and perhaps a bit childishly, but none of this is fair. It isn't fair that he loves too fast and too hard, it isn't fair that Till had died so young, it isn't fair that he couldn't even give him a hug to comfort him, and it isn't fair that Till isn't able to leave the lake--a place he hates, the place where he _died._ "I can't just...leave you out here. Till, I can't."

"Of course you can," he replies, this time very nearly smiling. "Go and be a rock star. You will forget about all of this soon. Once you start to travel..."

"I don't _want_ to forget about this!" Paul snaps, covering his face with his hands. "I don't want to forget about _you._ How do you not...care about this?"

Till cocks his head, large eyes staring curiously at Paul. "Of course I care about this," he murmurs, and Paul instantly regrets the harshness of the tone he'd used. "I would love for you to stay here. But that cannot happen."

"But why can't it?" Paul whispers, lower lip practically trembling. "I could move here, and stay here when we aren't touring--"

Till shakes his head. Paul was overcome with emotion, and it was making him behave irrationally. "And what? You are a Berliner, _Liebchen._ You will move to the countryside and spend all day sitting at a haunted lake?"

"It's haunted by you," he points out in a small voice. "That's different."

"I wouldn't want that," he murmurs. "You would waste away here. And you have so much more living to do before I see you again."

The confidence with which Till says that just depresses Paul more. How would he ever see Till again, even in death? There were so many places to die that were not the lake in Wendisch-Rambow. The odds of them ever reuniting seemed astronomical. 

"You ought to get some rest. You leave tomorrow," Till murmurs, leaning back on his palms. 

Paul shakes his head obstinately, folding his arms over his chest. "No. It's still early. I'm staying here with you."

Till looks over at the little hedgehog, defeated. He would have to realize for himself.

Paul lasts quite a while, too, content to sit with Till and talk quietly for a few hours until the sun is high and hot in the heavens. But he finds Till staring into space or out at the water more and more often, and his ability to hold a conversation dwindles. Sometimes, when Till thinks too hard about his death and the circumstances surrounding it, his lips turn blue again and he starts to cough up the lake water that doesn't splash and doesn't glitter in the sunlight. He had already begun to waste away, confined to his own death site, and sinks deeper and deeper into apathetic despair, as if someone had loaded him up with rocks and cast him off the side of a ship. It isn't until Paul insists upon staying that he realizes this. He can see the degeneration with his own eyes: it isn't physical, Till's form never distorts or changes, but his eyes look terribly empty, and he doesn't move for hours at a time. When he does move, he only wades into the water up to the knee, never deeper, and always returns soon after. His movements do not leave ripples in the water. It continues moving at its own rhythm as if Till isn't even there.

The failures of the human condition begin to wear away at Paul as well. It is hot, and beads of sweat form on his scalp, itching behind his ears. He is bored, and anxious, which makes him restless. His fidgeting rustles the reeds and disturbs the water, but Till hardly looks up anymore. What had seemed like a dreamy, surreal little escape had quickly become a nightmare. After hours have passed, Till finally looks back at Paul, tired eyes searching him knowingly. "Go home, Paul," he murmurs. "Get some sleep. This is no place for the living."

Paul opens his mouth to argue again, but slowly shuts it. It was true. He could hardly last like that for a few hours, let alone days, or years, or however long he'd imagined would be possible by sheer power of will. "...yeah," he finally murmurs, defeated, and pushes his fingers through his hair, looking down at his lap. "...I'm going to miss you."

"Then come back some day," Till replies. "I'll be here."

Paul slides closer to him carefully, licking his lips. "Uh...I would like to say goodbye to you. Properly."

Till nods, and lifts his hand again to rest it on the back of Paul's neck. Gently, he pulls him closer, and presses their lips together. 

Paul leaves the lake feeling even emptier than he had when he'd arrived. He'd wanted to kiss Till since he'd met him, and it ended up gutting him. It had been like puckering his lips against a cool breeze. He knew he shouldn't have expected any sort of warmth, or even feeling, but his hollow chest still ached for some kind of closure. He ached in his bones, in his very soul, for Till to somehow be alive.

Till's parting words to him still left a strange pang in Paul's stomach, although they could have been a misguided attempt at optimism. So, slowly, he walks back to the inn, Flake and the old man forgotten, wondering what Till possibly could have meant by _"See you soon."_


	4. Chapter 4

Till had never had the mind to fall asleep in the water, or even near it. Water could heal, but it could also easily destroy, and every year there were horror stories of children that stuck their heads into well-buckets or fell into small bodies of water and were unable to pull themselves out before their lungs betrayed them and forced them to draw breath. 

Drowning is agony. Till had tried to hold his breath for as long as he could, until his lungs had burned with the effort. Eventually, against his will, a pained gasp had torn down his throat and sucked a generous mouthful of briny water into his lungs. 

The coughing had started. A knee between his shoulder blades, and a heavy hand on the back of his neck had prevented Till from pulling his head out of the water. He'd braced his arms against the wet grass and struggled as well as he could, despite the sharp pain in his abdomen, until he began to kick his feet and writhe helplessly. Till had coughed hard, but the resulting recovery gasp had pulled even more water into his lungs, inviting fire to follow it, tearing at the tender flesh and causing his shut-tight eyes to water. 

He'd reached up behind him in an attempt to grab at his father, to pull him off or push him away, but his injured abdomen did not allow him to reach that far. Werner had held Till's head down, watching, expressionless, as his son had scratched and clawed at his own throat in panicked agony, before finally succumbing to the thick haze coming over him. 

And he'd woken up lakeside, sitting where his body had been pinned down, feet dipped tenderly in the same water that had seen his last breath. He'd been wet, and cold, and afraid. But most of all, alone. 

The thing, too, about falling asleep in the water, is that it's incredibly hard to do. Till, of course, had never tried, and although it was unlikely to affect him these days, he was hardly eager to make the attempt. 

One could, however, if they were so inclined, seek assistance for this feat. And that was precisely what Paul Landers had done, six months after his and Till's initial meeting. The help had come in the form of two sleeping pills and a half-pint of vodka, and Paul had, indeed, fallen asleep in the middle of the lake. 

It had happened before Till was even able to process what was going on. The terse, almost librarian stillness of the countryside at night had been suddenly shattered by the sound of drunken, boisterous splashing. 

"Paul?" Till rouses himself suddenly and stands up. Paul was on the opposite side of the lake, swaying unsteadily and wading into the pitch-black water until it swallows him up to the knees.

"Hello, Till!" Paul bellows back, waving jovially at him. "I thought I might go swimming!"

The lake is haunted, yes, but it also had the capability _to_ haunt. Paul had not gone a day without dwelling on Till and the circumstances of his death since he'd encountered him. The fixation was beginning to swallow him in a way that had begun to worry even Flake, who knew him better than anybody. So, Paul had taken one more sleeping pill than usual, and decided to have a drink and visit a friend.

Noticing immediately that there is something wrong, Till begins to wade further into the water hesitantly. "Paul, what are you doing here? It's the middle of the night--"

"Don't worry so much!" He loses his footing and stumbles to the side, giggling when Till gasps. 

"Come out of the water--Paul, don't, there is a _shelf_ \--"

"What?!" Paul calls back. "How can there be a shelf? There aren't any walls!"

Till barely resists the urge to roll his eyes, biting his lip as he creeps further into the lake. "I mean there is a _drop_."

"It sounds like you don't want to go swimming with me."

"I don't want you to go swimming at all!" Till snaps, exasperated. "Being in the water like this is dangerous."

Paul, emboldened with substance, hops into the water up to his waist. The vodka makes his cheeks burn, and the coolness of the lake is a nice relief. "The lake is haunted, you know." He looks over at Till, then giggles. "Well, of course _you_ know."

"Paul, _please_ , this is making me very nervous--"

"You worry too much."

Teeth set on edge, Till cautiously wades into the water up to his hips. "Paul...please..."

Paul grins, takes a large step toward Till, and drops like a rock off the steep shelf and into the depths of the water. 

Till stares for a moment, stunned, before finally disregarding his fear of the water and swimming out after him. The lake in Wendisch-Rambow has a foot-high shelf just past the three-foot mark, that quickly turns into a 45-degree slope. The deepest point of the lake was more than seven feet below sea level, and before Till's accident, it had been the cause of warning for many children. 

"Paul!" Till shouts, diving into the water and reaching for him. He isn't too far under, he would be easy to pull up--

Ice fills Till's stomach when his hands pass right through Paul, who is struggling to stand and trying, in his drunken stupidity, to breathe. 

"No," he whispers. "No, no no, just--fuck, please--let me help him!" Till screams to the sky, to no one, before trying again, and again, in vain, to pull Paul to safety. 

He does not feel the harshness of the water burning in his lungs, or the heart-stalling panic that Till had experienced. Amidst his coughing, his struggling to tread water, Paul simply stares at Till and feels tired. 

"Why are you worried?" he rasps, coughing again and struggling to push his head back above water when he goes under again. "I'm alright."

"No you aren't," Till insists, exasperated, trying again to reach for him. "You can't get back up to the shore."

"Maybe I'll be a fish then." He blinks slowly and tilts his head all the way back, attempting to keep his nose and mouth above the surface. "I'm sleepy."

Till shakes his head quickly, panic beginning to set in. "No. Don't be sleepy. You can wake up. You can do it--"

"Shush," Paul mumbles, sliding under the water again. He takes much longer to pull himself back up again, and Till grunts and tries to wrap his arms around him, but it's futile for him to even try. He knows it, he knows there isn't any point, but still, he attempts, and prays for a miracle.

Nobody hears him. Or if they do, they don't answer. 

Paul Landers falls asleep in the middle of the lake, face down, bubbles dragging slowly from between his parted lips and drifting to the surface. Till refuses to leave his side, treading the deep water with the effortlessness of someone who no longer tires, blue-green eyes wide with worry. 

Till had fallen apart once Paul had stopped moving. He'd shaken him, as well as he could, screamed his name so hard it echoed through the basin of the valley and out into the empty sky. 

"Paul, please," Till begs his motionless, bobbing body, tears streaming down his face. He reaches over to stroke his hair, now matted down with the moisture, and lets out a quiet sob. He'd lost track of how long it had been since Paul had first gone under. An hour? Two? He was cold already, consumed by the lake, all the heat drawn from his fragile body and presented to the depths of the water as a sacrifice. The lake had claimed another life, and this time, Till thought, it was a life that had truly deserved to be lived until the end. 

The time drags by slower than normal, and Till stares emptily at Paul's body, wishing desperately that this would all be the result of the first dream he'd had in four years. 

Till keeps trying to reach out and touch the soft, soaked flesh of Paul's back, watching hopelessly as it continues to pass through him. Perhaps they wouldn't be reunited after all. Till had no idea what was keeping him tethered to the lake. Others had almost certainly died here before him, and yet he was the only one here, trapped all alone in the land of the living.

 _"HHHHHHHH!"_ This time, Till is the one to scream and jump backward as Paul gasps, tearing his head out of the lake and coughing up two lungfuls of water. He doubles over and grabs Till's bicep for balance, holding his throat with one hand and coughing hard. His lips were tinged with blue, rich brown eyes sunken and tired looking. "Oh, fuck--"

"Paul!" Till stares at him for a moment, struck with disbelief, then pulls him into a tight hug. "You're _alive!"_

"Wow, I guess I am." Paul looks down and touches his body, combing his hair back so it would stop dripping into his eyes. "That was close." He looks up at Till and grins, then looks down at the two large hands that were still gripping his shoulders. 

Till seems to notice at the same time, and raises his eyebrows, slowly withdrawing his hands. "Uh..."

Paul shakes his head and reaches out, gasping softly when he feels Till's shoulder--actually _feels_ the soft, wet skin stiffen underneath his fingertips. 

Till lifts a large hand and gently places it on Paul's head, stroking his fingers through the choppy blonde hair. He pushes his fingers through it, the wetness causing it to stand up, and they both giggle at the absurdity of it all. 

"Maybe you aren't alive, then."

"...maybe I'm not." Cocking his head, Paul studies Till, and reaches up to stroke his cheek. "Oh, come on--why do you look sad?"

"Because you are dead," Till murmurs. "And now you'll be stuck here too."

"Oh. I guess that's true." Paul frowns a little. "But at least I won't be here alone. And neither will you! You have company now."

"What if you realize that you don't like me?"

"Don't be silly, I like you plenty already." Paul wades back toward the shore, grinning as Till follows behind him. Being dead wasn't so different from being alive. It was odd that the water didn't move around him, and was totally undisturbed by his presence, but other than that, all that felt particularly different was the consistent feeling that he'd only just woken up--that cloudy, out-of-it feeling that lingered for a few moments just after waking from a deep sleep. 

He takes a seat on the shore, now opposite from where Till usually sits, and folds his legs underneath him. Till sits down beside him, keeping his feet in the water, and within a few moments, they are both reclining, staring into the colorful sky as the sun rises, holding hands and nestling together as the last of the cool air begins to dissipate. 

A grin tugs at Paul's lips as Till wraps a large arm around him, and he nestles right into his chest and throws an arm over his stomach. Perhaps it was the sheer activity of his imagination, but Paul could swear that Till looked much less depressed now. He was staring at the same sky he'd been staring at for years, but this time around, his eyes were filled with childlike wonder. 

"You seem to be in a better mood," he murmurs. 

"I told you that I enjoy having you here." Till smiles a little. "It just so happens that I was being truthful."

"Aren't you charming," he hums, reaching up to pet Till's hair tenderly, and wrapping one leg around his thigh.

Till lifts his head up when he feels something brush his calf. "...was that your foot?"

"Yes. Sorry." Paul curls his legs back up, grunting when Till sits up like a shot and nearly throws him off. "Hey, I said I'm sorry--what?"

Till stares at him and wraps a hand around his ankle, gently lifting his foot up. "You...aren't stuck."

Paul blinks, wiggling his toes and scooting away from the water. It's true--there isn't a single part of his body in the lake. He isn't tethered there. "Oh my god--Till! I'm not stuck! Isn't that great?"

Till tries, he really does, to give Paul a genuine smile. But his hands are shaking, and Grief has just driven a stake through his heart. "...yes, _Liebchen._ It's wonderful. I'm so happy for you."

Paul frowns deeply. "What's wrong? You don't look happy."

"No, I...of course I am." Till scrubs his hands over his face, tears filling his eyes again. "I just...I am selfish. I don't want you to leave."

He blinks. "What makes you think I'll leave?"

"You have the whole world to see," Till whispers, blinking up at him. "I would never make you stay here."

Paul wraps his arms around Till from and frowns, hoping dearly that his wanderlust wouldn't get the best of him. "I want to take you with me."

Shaking his head, Till leans back against Paul's chest. "You know I can't."

Childishly, Paul tugs at him. "I don't know that. Try."

When Till fails to move, Paul stands up and grabs his hands, pulling him to his feet. "Come on." He begins to back away from the water, eyes trained on Till's. 

Till shuts his eyes once he reaches the edge of the water, ready to be stopped by whatever force had kept him there for the past four years, but instead he blinks as he lifts one foot out of the lake.

Paul's eyes light up and he smiles like a sunbeam, squeezing Till's hands and throwing all his weight backwards with the intention of yanking him the rest of the way out. They both stumble, and Paul ends up underneath him, back to the warm, dry grass and eyes fixed on Till. "Well?"

Till squeezes one eye open and pushes himself up with his hands, glancing back at his feet. 

His _feet!_

He rolls off Paul, who sits up and leans against his shoulder like a cat, studying his feet. They were dry. They were out of the lake. 

"...am I free?" he whispers, looking up when Paul shoots to his feet giddily, pulling Till up as well. He begins to drag him up the hill, and Till stares, stunned, at the lake that was beginning to shrink in the distance. "Wait--wait, don't I have to go back?"

"No." Paul smiles as brightly as Till has ever seen, then leans up on his tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips. "You never have to go back ever again." 

Till nods slowly, and they begin to walk, hand-in-hand, away from the water and out of the valley. They weren't sure where they would end up, exactly, but that hardly mattered. After all, they had forever to decide, and the entire world to see.


End file.
